


5 Conversations Sancaka Had With His Family, and 1 He Didn’t

by pissedofsandwich



Category: Bumilangit Cinematic Universe, Gundala (2019)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Schmoop, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-10-06 23:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20515118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: Sancaka talks with each member of his new family. And then his family talks about him.Pt. 1, aka: Wulan and Sancaka argue whether ignorance is truly bliss.Pt. 2, aka: Sancaka teaches Teddy about the joys of kol goreng.Pt. 3, aka: Pak Agung and Sancaka talk about dream professions.Pt. 4, aka: Sancaka and Awang are reunited.Pt. 5, aka: Nani and Sancaka have a heart to heart about money.Pt. 6, aka: Wulan, Nani, and Awang talk about Sancaka's fear of lightning—and does something about it.





	1. Wulan

**Author's Note:**

> abimana plays sancaka so tortured that i just need to see him being loved and cared for. this will have 6 parts, and each chapter will have a different character. 
> 
> this chapter is particular is born out of my disappointment at the lack of development in wulan's and sancaka's relationship. if only they had one more scene that truly solidifies the foundation of their relationship beyond girl-who-wants-to-fight and the hero, i feel like the reveal at the end that wulan knows his mother is still alive would be that much more earth-shattering. this is set halfway in the movie, before the confession. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

Wulan is always talking. Mostly to Teddy, reminding him to do his homework, to get off his phone and help with the dishes, yelling after him to not leave such a mess wherever he goes. In front of the _preman_, she is unafraid, shouting profanities at them, down to fight even when she is outnumbered, no match in strength. When they first move to the printing warehouse, she instantly makes a comment about some blockbuster Hollywood movie that Sancaka’s never seen, how fitting it is that this will be their lair.

But the words that always stuck with Sancaka is: “When you see injustice and choose to do nothing about it, then you’ve lost your humanity.”

He wonders if that’s true. Out in the streets, caring about others is what gets someone killed. What matters is only asserting who’s stronger, bigger – the law of the jungle, in the hard concrete that makes Jakarta so cold and unwelcoming. He’s survived this far because he doesn’t butt his nose in anyone’s problems – and it keeps him up at night, sometimes, to turn away from injustice. It ignites a kind of pain inside him that’s a little different than getting struck by lightning. But what good will it be, if he decides to butt in, and get himself killed? A nameless, insignificant life in the glittering metropolitan city; at best his body will be buried. Knowing his area, the killers will probably dump his body in the Ciliwung, or left where he died to rot. Maybe it will rain – just like it did when his father died.

(The factory turned a blind eye. The workers wanted to sue, but what were they hoping to achieve, when they lived pay check to pay check? His father died, and all his family got was compensation money that didn’t last them two weeks – all forty years of his father’s life and the factory decided he was only worth two weeks of wage – if he dies, he will probably be worth less than that)

One night, when Wulan is patching up the fresh wounds on his back – she knows they will heal in mere hours, and Sancaka knows why she does it, he just doesn’t think he should address it – he asks her, “Do you really think that?”

“What?” Wulan asks, tone sharper than it needs to.

“Grumpy,” Sancaka notes.

Wulan smacks him lightly on the shoulders. “No, seriously. What? Do I really think what?”

“That people who do nothing at the face of injustice has lost their humanity.”

Wulan hums. She sets the damp rag down – there are splotches of red on it, slowly turning a darker, brown-ish color. “Why do you ask?”

Sancaka shrugs. “Just thinking.”

“Don’t overthink. It makes you age prematurely.”

“Is that what happens to you?”

Another smack, harder than before. “Rude,” Wulan scoffs, but Sancaka just laughs. Her hand hits like an ant’s bite. Is it her strength, or is it him, getting more invulnerable?

“Sorry,” Sancaka says.

Wulan rolls her eyes. She sits down next to him, though, and her eyes harden, the way they do when she’s rallying the sellers against the _preman_. “In all my life, I’ve never met someone who’s _not_ privileged say that they don’t care about what’s happening around them. When someone says that they don’t care, it means that they can afford to. Because the injustices happening around them are negligible to their lives. They no longer care about anything as long as they stay in their happy little bubble of ignorance – because they don’t want to feel guilty for the money that they have. As long as they can rejoice in the comfort of their homes, it doesn’t matter if on the outside of their very door, there’s a man starving to death.” Wulan stares ahead. “It’s not human.”

Sancaka kneads his fingers. He doesn’t want to look her in the eyes. “But what if…” Wulan turns his head to look at him. “What if not caring is safe?”

Wulan’s forehead creases.

“No, I don’t mean safe, like ignorance is bliss. I’m saying, what if not caring is necessary for survival?”

The girl next to him shudders. “If it’s the only way to live on this Earth, I’d rather die.”

(_But if you die, you’re only worth two weeks of –_ )

“Really? You’d rather die?”

“I _cannot_ turn my back when I can do something, Sancaka,” Wulan insists.

“Even if it means you die?”

Wulan’s eyes are unflinching. “Yes.”

“So you’d rather have – your life, _wasted_ – “

(_If we don’t stand up for our rights, Sancaka, then we’re no longer humans)_

“Wasted? How is a life spent in fighting for what’s right wasted?” Wulan’s tone rises, indignant.

Sancaka’s tongue feels heavy. He wants to tell her about his father, who died of a ghost knife, fighting for what’s right. He wants to tell her about his mother, who disappeared like the wind, trying to provide for him. He wants to tell her about Awang, who slipped through his fingers, never to be seen again. He’s alive this far because he knows not to meddle in anyone’s business, because it’s what Awang told him – because being saddled with him is a burden to him, that he has to get away to Tenggara to be rid of him, to live that uncaring, free life, unbothered by a little kid who cowers at lightning.

Words fail him, and he opens his mouth only to close it again.

Wulan’s face falls. God, she thought so highly of him, didn’t she? She thought he was this noble hero, but she didn’t know how many horrid things he’d deliberately walked away from. How many terrible things he could’ve stopped if he just gave a fuck. Now she knew what he is, and just like the wind, she will leave him –

“Sancaka,” Wulan calls. He doesn’t dare look her in the eyes. “Look, there’s absolutely something going on underneath that I won’t pry, you’ll tell me in your own time, but what you are right now is not like those people I talk about. Whatever happened in your past, it doesn’t define who you are.”

It’s when Wulan reaches for his hand that he realizes he’s shaking. “I – I don’t want to think that I’ve turned into – something not human. Even if I did it out of survival. I just – what good are we doing, in the end, Wulan? We’re small people, hitting other small people. The real problem comes from those sitting snugly in Senayan and frankly, I don’t think we’d ever get there. So why care? When it’s easier to just – not?”

“Because you are human, Sancaka,” Wulan promises. She clasps his hand, and the look in her eyes tells Sancaka that she believes in it, above all else. “You are _human_. Lightning or not, you chose to care. You stood up for what’s right, and that is more than anyone would ever do.”

Sancaka exhales. He wishes Wulan didn’t look so convinced. He thinks that’s the problem – despite all this strength, this ability, he’s still way too late, way too slow. He couldn’t get to his father, couldn’t reach Awang fast enough – what else will he miss? One day what he does will carry a body count, and it will be an innocent bystander, a mere person caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he will be to blame. He isn’t strong or fast enough, and the sooner Wulan understands that, the better.

But Wulan is still looking at him like that, and he can’t open his mouth.

“You’re not the only one with regrets,” Wulan says softly. “I – I was a nurse, before. There was a city-wide outbreak of malaria, and my hospital was filled to the brim. One day, two women came. One came in an _ojek_, the other in a Mercedes Benz, followed by her husband. There was only one room left.” She lets go of his hand, looks sideways. “The husband paid me to let his wife get the room.”

Sancaka’s breath catches. “What happened to other woman?”

Wulan doesn’t speak for a long time. She’s lost the hardened edge in her voice when she tells him, “I don’t know. I just – I needed money, Sancaka, and I can’t let Teddy stay with our step-father, so I – look,” she trails off, shaking her head. “Whatever you did or didn’t do in the past, it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.” Sancaka doesn’t comment on how it sounded like she’s also trying to convince herself. “But I want you to understand this: you’re _good_, Sancaka. Did you see it in the news? Everyone, united, because of you. You’re _hope_.”

Sancaka reaches for her hand. He needs – to hold on to something. He can’t be hope alone, no, he’s failed too much –

“And wherever your father might be,” Wulan squeezes his shoulder, “I know he’d be proud of you.”


	2. Teddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yesterday i ate the best goddamn sambel + kol goreng combo and thus this was born. i know kol goreng is unhealthy, but for fiction's sake let's pretend it's not as cancerous as it actually is. (the key is moderation!)
> 
> this is set loosely after the end of the movie. i debated to have some heavy topic being discussed between them, but i don't want teddy or sancaka to be sadbois so have silly boys enjoying the joys of fried veggies

Teddy won’t eat his vegetables.

“Teddy,” Wulan has her hands on her hips, exasperated and tired. “Don’t make me force feed you.”

The morning starts out tense. No one likes to be yelled at in the morning, let alone on a Sunday morning. Teddy is sitting on the dinner table, headphone in with no song playing. Sancaka doesn’t think that it’s even connected to the music player. “I don’t like them.”

Wulan sighs heavily. “Come on, Teddy. There a lot of kids living in the streets who would kill to be able to eat vegetables.”

“You’re guilt-tripping me,” Teddy crosses his arms.

“Teddy. I’m serious. You eat your veggies, or I’m taking away your headphone for a week.”

Teddy gasps. He stands up from his chair so quickly that it nearly topples over, and runs into his room. He closes his door with a loud bang that is sure to be heard by the entire neighborhood floor. “Teddy!” Wulan calls after him, but makes no move to go after him. She sighs again, long-suffering, and wipes one hand down her face. “Don’t say anything,” she says, glaring at Sancaka.

Sancaka shrugs. “I didn’t say anything.”

Wulan huffs. “I’m going to the market. Tell Teddy that if by the time I come back he still hasn’t eaten his veggies, I’m seriously confiscating his headphone for a whole damn week.” She leaves, slamming the door with the same force – if not more – as Teddy.

Sancaka blinks.

“Two peas in a pod,” he mutters to himself.

Now that Wulan’s gone, the apartment feels strangely empty. Sancaka wonders if he should go check on Teddy, wonders if it would cross a line, somehow. While Wulan entrusts him with Teddy’s well-being, there’s an unspoken rule that goes between them, and it says that Sancaka should never interfere with how Wulan chooses to raise Teddy. But he can’t help but sympathize with Teddy – there is not much on the plate when he was a child, to begin with, but he never liked bitter melon. His father loved them, would dunk its entirety in _sambal _to eat along with hot rice, but they tasted disgusting to him.

He stares at Teddy’s door. Hopefully, Wulan won’t get way too pissed at him for siding with Teddy on this one.

He knocks on Teddy’s door.

“Go away!” came the muffled yell.

“Teddy,” Sancaka calls calmly, “I’m not here to get you to eat veggies.”

Silence. And then, Teddy’s face appears in the tiny crack between the door and the frame. “Really?” the kid says, sounding skeptical. “You’re not on some secret mission to get me to eat veggies?”

“No,” Sancaka says. “I’m here to make a deal.”

Teddy still looks skeptical, but interested enough for him to cross his arms on his chest and say, “Spill.”

“I’m going to eat your veggies,” Sancaka says, “and I’ll tell Wulan that _you_ ate it. In exchange, you will do the dishes for a whole week straight, including the weekend.”

Teddy pushes the door fully open. He holds out one hand. “Deal.”

Sancaka takes it in a firm grip. “Nice doing business with you.”

And so they saunter into the dining room, where the plate of rice, chicken, and veggies is lying on top of the dining room. Wulan’s given him carrots and cabbages. Sancaka pulls out another plate from the shelf and scoops out the veggies onto it. Teddy looks down at his vegetable-free plate, and grins up at him. “You truly are a hero for the oppressed.”

Sancaka laughs. From the pile of dirty kitchen tools in the sink, he fishes out the frying plan, and after washing it clean, puts it on the stove. He pours a little bit of oil – it is quite expensive, these days, so a little has to go a long way – and waits until the pan’s hot, and into the frying pan the cabbages and carrots go.

Teddy, with a mouth full of rice and chicken, observes him with a questioning look.

The carrots don’t need a lot of time on the pan. Once they get little brown pots, Sancaka lifts them and transfers them onto the previous plate. The cabbages – he has his own preference of _kol goreng_, and that is to take it off the heat when it’s gotten translucent, and continue cooking until the edges turn brown and crispy. Once the cabbages are done, he takes a scoopful of rice and sits down on the table, across from Teddy.

Teddy eyes him suspiciously. “What were you doing?”

“Frying the veggies,” Sancaka says. “Tastes better that way.”

Teddy looks doubtful. Sancaka clucks his tongue. “Taste it if you don’t believe me.”

“Is this a trick?” Teddy narrows his eyes. “So you are trying to get me to eat veggies!”

“I’m not!” Sancaka says. “I made these for me. But you can have some if you’re so curious.”

“I’m not,” Teddy insists.

“Good. More for me,” Sancaka says. He dips his fried cabbage into the bowl of _sambal _and places it on top of a pinch of rice, and with his fingers, scoops it into his mouth. He hums in appreciation – the _sambal_ is fantastic. His father used to tease his mother about her _sambal_, saying that the angrier a woman is when pounding chili, the more tasteful the _sambal_. And Wulan is definitely angry about ten different things at the same time, always.

Teddy is still eyeing him suspiciously.

Sancaka huffs. “Seriously, just try one if it stops you from looking at me like you have a personal vendetta against me.”

“Fine,” Teddy finally relents. “But don’t think that I didn’t know what you were playing at this whole time, Sancaka. I know the way you think now.” Teddy probably means it to be like a threat, but he is also twelve and only reaching up to his elbow, so Sancaka just mostly thinks he’s adorable.

Teddy picks up one of the fried cabbages. Hesitantly, after dipping it into the _sambal_, he eats it. Munching once, twice. Then, almost unconsciously, he reaches for another, goes through the same process, and says, in a shocked voice, “They… taste good?”

Sancaka hides his triumphant smile. “They do, don’t they?”

“Oh my God,” Teddy says around a mouthful of rice and fried cabbage. “This is so good! How did you know that frying veggies would make them taste so good? Wait, don’t tell me – you read it in a book.”

“No, actually,” Sancaka says. “From my – my mom.”

He doesn’t know why his voice still catches like that, whenever he talks about his mom. It’s been years – he was talking about her the other day with Wulan, showed her the photograph he kept in his wallet, and he was able to keep his voice steady. “Well, tell your mom that she is a genius,” Teddy says.

Eating always reminds him of the day that his mother disappeared, and the next-door neighbor whose name he doesn’t want to remember offered him hot food in a _rantang_, as if that would everything. Chicken reminds him of the taste of dirt and concrete, when he picked them up, starving and dejected.

He isn’t thinking about all that. Watching Teddy’s face showing all kinds of delight, Sancaka secretly vows to protect that smile, no matter what.

“I will,” Sancaka tells him.

“I’m telling all my friends about this,” Teddy declares. “This, and a little bit chicken – “ he does an exaggerated chef’s kiss that has Sancaka laughing.

They finish their meal together, and after, as Sancaka unloads their dirty dishes into the sink, Teddy gently pushes him away and says, “Let me.” Except he’s too short to reach the faucet, and Sancaka spends one minute watching him struggling to reach the knob while standing on his tiptoes. It's adorably funny, but gets pitiful after a while, and Sancaka finally reaches over his head to switch on the faucet for him.

“Drink more milk,” he says.

Teddy grins at him. “Thank you, _Mas_.”


	3. Pak Agung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in a day? i know. you're welcome.
> 
> (gabut banget anjir)

“Pak,” Sancaka asks him out of the blue, “When you were a child, did you ever think you would end up being a security?”

Far in the distance, the sun is slowly coming down, welcoming the moon into the night. Gundala doesn’t come up until the moon is truly in the sky, but Sancaka’s already wearing his suit, dark and sleek and military-grade. A far cry from his old suit made out of things scattered in the warehouse and Wulan’s leather bag. He looks menacing with the helmet on, but without the helmet, Sancaka looks too soft. Too young to bear the fate of the nation.

Pak Agung snorts at the question. “Did you think any kid would want to grow up to be a security?”

“Who knows,” Sancaka shrugs. “Security’s a respectable field.”

“Ha!” Pak Agung says. “If you want to live paycheck to paycheck, sure.”

“It’s good, honest work,” Sancaka argues. “Not everybody’s life goal, but it’s pretty good for a kid who never went to school.”

Pak Agung did finish high school. He knows that Sancaka didn’t; the day of the interview, Sancaka walked in with nothing but the clothes on his body, no CV or resumes, just experience of working odd jobs starting at the age of 10. He gave him the job because he saw the raw honesty in Sancaka that didn’t exist in any of the candidates, and he knew as soon as Sancaka started working, that he had made the right choice.

He looks out into the city, beyond the polluted fog and the skyscrapers. Sitting on the rooftop always reminds him of his near-death experience. While traumatizing, being near-death humbled him too, in lots of ways. He’s old, close to retirement, and has no pension money worth mentioning. Most would give up and wait for death. But God decided to let him live, and it should mean something – that he has a purpose unfulfilled, maybe. That he’s given another chance.

“Don’t talk yourself down,” Pak Agung says, smacking Sancaka across the head. It must’ve felt like nothing to the superpowered Sancaka, but the kid flinches anyway, grumbling under his breath. “You’re a smart kid. You didn’t have to go to school to be smart.”

“Yeah, but you will need school if you want to be,” he hesitates, “rich.”

Pak Agung thinks about his response. He, too, wanted to be rich when he was young, migrating into the big capital in hopes of getting better opportunities, better jobs. Back then, he thought that if he worked hard enough, he would be successful. If he just put in more hours, did a little more at work, he would one day become a millionaire. But all he got in exchange for his hard work is back pain, a nasty divorce, and millions in debt that he was still paying.

“You think those people in Senayan got rich by going to school?” Pak Agung says. “They doctored their diploma, paid their friends to make it seem like they’re smart. But all they are is dumb and a liar, Sancaka, and if products of formal education are people like them, then I’m glad that you didn’t go to school.”

Sancaka smiles faintly. “You’re being too harsh. Pak Ridwan is actually smart.”

Pak Agung waves his hand dismissively. “He’s dumb enough to trust the whole amoral serum thing.”

“Well, that’s Pengkor and his plans.”

Pak Agung shudders at that name. He’s supposedly dead, but men like Pengkor don’t die fast. “Pengkor’s cunning. Not smart.”

“I don’t know,” Sancaka shrugs. “What if I took a different turn? Got put in social work, adopted, and went to school to become – I don’t know – and engineer?”

“Well, then this city wouldn’t have Gundala,” Pak Agung says. “The city wouldn’t be safe from Pengkor.”

“Yes, but you – and Wulan and Teddy – wouldn’t be hurt.”

Something in Pak Agung’s heart breaks at that. It’s been, what, 3 months? And Sancaka is still blaming himself. Despite everything that he’s done, despite him being alive and well and _right in front of him_, Sancaka still feels guilty. He hides it well, jokes around when Wulan teases him, talks back when Pak Agung is ‘giving him a lecture’, as he calls it. But now, Pak Agung can feel that the guilt is eating him alive.

Pak Agung reaches over to grip his shoulder. “Yes,” he murmurs, “But the _pasar _will still be a target. Maybe his goons will burn down the warehouse too, who knows. It’s not your fault that you stood up and helped people, Sancaka.”

Sancaka glances sideways. Pak Agung knows he’s trying to hold his tears in.

He’s only thirty; no one that young should be burdened with such a responsibility. But Sancaka has a good heart – it’s what stood out about him, the first time Pak Agung met him – and without asking for anything in return, he suits up and saves the city that never treated him right.

“I don’t blame you, Sancaka,” Pak Agung says. “I know Wulan and Teddy didn’t. So you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

Pak Agung hears sniffles, but Sancaka is quick to wipe his eyes. The sky is turning a dark purple as he clips on his helmet. He stands up, and instantly, his posture changes. His back is straight, his shoulders pulled back, and his expression completely hidden behind the mask and goggles. Pak Agung hears the smile in his words, anyway. “Thank you, Pak.”

“No, thank _you_,” Pak Agung stands up too, giving his arm a squeeze. “You want to know what I wanted to be, when I was little? I wanted to be a father.” He truly did – learning that he was infertile destroyed his marriage, and nearly his life, too. “And you – if your father was here – “

“No,” Sancaka cuts him off. “My father – _is_ here, Pak. Right in front of me.”

Sirens wail in the night. Pak Agung lets go of Sancaka, his heart feeling full. “Go. Save the city.”

Sancaka nods, ready to take off into the night, but at the last moment, he swivels around, grabbing Pak Agung’s hand in both of his. He brings them to his forehead. “_Saya pamit, Pak_.” With that, he leaps off the roof and disappears into the city.

Pak Agung watches him go, and thinks about all the ways that God works in secret. Perhaps this is why he’s still alive. He remembers praying, one day, that God will give him a son, and that he will grow up to be a good man. God didn’t give him exactly what he asked for – he gave him more. He gave him a _hero. _And if it’s truly his purpose, then Pak Agung is going to fulfill it, to the best of his abilities.

“Be careful, Sancaka,” he says into the night, and hopes that God will carry this prayer too.


	4. Awang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said long-haired awang rights!!!
> 
> also, this is probably set far in the future, after the sri asih movie

Awang is different.

It’s not just that he’s gained an addition of about 30 kilograms of muscle mass or that his hair is longer than Sancaka remembers. It’s more than just appearances – the look on his eyes is harder, the set of his mouth is grim, jaw and shoulders tense like he’s carrying the weight of the world. Maybe he is – Sancaka wouldn’t know. This is the first time Sancaka has seen him in over two decades.

He’s daydreamed about this moment for so long. Their reunion, in his head, is bittersweet. They will hug like old friends and trade stories about where they’ve been, what has changed, what hasn’t. But Godam descends from the sky, his body, despite being shot by tens of bullets, unharmed, and Sancaka is at a loss of words.

“I thought I told you not to care about other people,” Godam – _Awang_ – says. His voice carries differently. Everything about their situation is different, everything about _them _is different.

Sancaka unclasps his helmet. His hair must be a mess, sticking all directions after being stuck inside a helmet for far too long, but that’s the least of his worries right now. “How do you know it’s me?”

“The Father of Truth told me to find you,” Awang says.

“The Father of – “ Sancaka shakes his head. “What are you talking about? How – are you able to do all of – that?” He gestures wildly to the sky, where Awang had been, just mere minutes ago, hovering above him.

“I think we need to talk,” Awang decides. “The two of us.”

-

Awang’s entire power is held inside a ring.

That’s acceptable. Sancaka grows up listening to his mother telling him mythical stories about _siluman_ and pendekar. Sri Asih is a goddess reincarnation and her _selendang_ can destroy a goddamn truck, and so it makes sense that –

“A _ring_?”

Awang holds it between the two of them. He’s back in his civvies, a battered dark-blue hoodie and ripped denim pants. His hair is tied up in a bun. The ring is a simple silver band with a blue rock placed in the middle. “It’s given to me by Godam.”

“Godam isn’t you?”

“Not the way that you are Gundala.”

Sancaka makes a confused noise. “How did you know that I was Gundala?”

Awang slips the ring back to his finger with an annoyed huff. “Can you stop interrupting me with questions? As I was saying, Godam isn’t me. He’s a – being, from another planet. Banished into this thing,” he holds up his hand, showing Sancaka the ring, “and given to the Father of Truth, in the human dimension. I was chosen to bear the power of this ring. When I fight crime, I become a medium for his powers.”

Sancaka blinks. “There are other dimensions?”

Awang chuckles. “There’s a _lot _of things that you don’t know.”

Sancaka brings the cup of tea to his mouth, miffed that Awang, after all these years, still treats him like he’s a gullible street kid who was born yesterday.

They’re sitting on the conveyor belt in the warehouse, shoulder-to-shoulder, sipping a cup of sugarless tea. Awang is _here_. In the first days since Awang left for Tenggara, Sancaka often thought about him. After he beat those kids at the port, he went back to their shack at the train garage, wondering if what he did would’ve made Awang proud. _Do not care about anyone. _And here they are, Gundala and Godam, betraying the very values Awang believed and instilled in him.

“I know you must think I’m a hypocrite,” Awang says, as if reading his mind.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but I know you think that.”

“What, that ring gives you the power of mind-reading too?” Sancaka snaps. “You told me not to care about anything. You told me that caring about other people is a burden – and here you fucking are, acting all high and mighty, with some fucking – _alien_ giving you superpowers.”

Awang makes a disapproving face. “Godam’s not really an alien.”

“I don’t care what he is,” Sancaka says, his grip on his tea cup tightening. He doesn’t notice the rapid pounding of his heart until he hears it in his ears. Facing Awang, after all these years, turns him into his ten-year-old naïve self, running far too slow to catch up with Awang.

Awang sighs. “What do you want me to do? Apologize for telling you not to care about anything? What difference would it make? Look at you!” He points at the ceiling, the punching bags hanging from it, Gundala’s costume stored carefully behind a glass case, next to his old, retired one. “You’re a whole goddamn superhero. What was it that the newspapers are calling you? A beacon of hope?” He spits out the last word like it’s a curse.

Sancaka closes his eyes. He hates that, he hates being called the beacon of hope, and more than that he hates the term _superhero_. “I’m not,” he says.

“Too bad, that’s what they’re calling you,” Awang almost growls. “That’s what you are. And you better accept it.” Awang is standing up now, and Sancaka hopes that nothing on his expression betrays how he feels. But of course, Awang reads him as easily as he did back then – after all, Awang taught Sancaka to be everything that he is now. “Oh. You _hate_ it. You don’t want to be called a hero.”

Sancaka feels those words like a knife to his gut. He can’t look Awang in the eyes suddenly, the mocking smirk that spreads across his mouth. He’ll never admit it to Wulan, who looks at him like he holds all the answers. Like he’s _hope_. He’ll never admit it to Nani, who seems so convinced in the prophecy of Gundala bringing an end to all the world’s destruction. He cannot be hope; not when this darkness inside him of still awakes every night, luring him to just – leave it all. Let the world burn. He never asked to be chosen. If his life is pre-destined, does he have any control over it at all? 

“You know what fighting evil feels like?” Sancaka asks, looking at the outdated calendar still hanging on the post next to them. “Throwing mud on a wall to break it down.” He clenches his fist, laughs without mirth. “Fucking useless.”

Hope is not what he sees when he looks in the mirror – instead, he sees his own body count, the people he’s killed for this cause, Pak Agung’s funeral, Wulan and Teddy on the rooftop, gun cocked at them, the couple of women who will birth deformed children. Hope shouldn’t be defined by someone with so many failures. He – he shouldn’t be _hope_.

“God, you’ve gotten so fucking emo,” Awang scoffs.

Sancaka shoots him a dirty look, irritated. “Are you only here to make me feel worse?”

“No, I’m here to tell you to stop getting stuck inside your head,” Awang flicks his forehead, and the gesture, perhaps intended to be comforting, feels like an insult. Sancaka covers his forehead with his mouth downturned. “Fine, you wanna be dramatic and call it throwing mud on a wall. Sure. At least you still left a mark. Do you know how many people are dying to just be able to leave a mark?”

“It’s not the same thing,” Sancaka shakes his head.

“Maybe, but a mark’s a mark. Regardless of whether you’re truly a hero or not, what you did stays with them,” Awang says. “And that’s fucking enough.”

Sancaka sighs. “It sure doesn’t feel like that.”

“No. You wanna know why? Because you live _for_ others. You count your successes in your failures.” Awang jabs an accusing finger in his direction. “You want to save everyone. Well, you can’t. That’s just the truth. If you can’t accept that you’re a hero, at least accept that.”

Sancaka stares at him. “So those that you failed to save – they didn’t bother you?” _Didn’t haunt your thoughts at night, didn’t taunt you in your nightmares? Didn’t weigh you down?_

“Nah,” Awang shrugs. “I don’t do it for them.”

Sancaka blinks, taken aback. If a hero doesn’t save the world because they love the people living within it, can they be called a hero at all?

“Look, it’s simple,” Awang says, as if he’s talking to a three-year-old about ideologies and not a grown man. “If Ki Wilawuk goes apeshit and destroys the world, I die. And like hell if I’m dying because some ancient _siluman_ in a headband wants to eat the world.” He stares back at Sancaka. “If I’m dying, it’ll be on my own terms.”

Sancaka thinks about that for a moment. God, it’ll be nice to die on his own terms. Not by some battle wounds, but of old age, surrounded by his family. Wulan, if she so wishes, at his side, his children and grandchildren. Passing peacefully. It sounds like a foreign life; one he will never get even a taste of.

He says to Awang, “Ki Wilawuk isn’t really a _siluman_.”

Awang glances scornfully at him. “I don’t fucking care what he is. Bitch came back to life after being dead for hundreds of years. Sure as hell ain’t human to me.”

Sancaka wonders how Nani would react to Awang calling an ancient creature of death and destruction a bitch. God, maybe Awang really hasn’t changed after all.

“What if you die at the hands of Ki Wilawuk?”

“Shit, then I die, then,” Awang shrugs.

“That easy, huh?” Sancaka glances at him.

“Yeah,” Awang nods. His stare holds something heavy in it, and Sancaka suddenly feels self-conscious. He touches his ear, the one that’s mangled from his encounter with the street kids when he was a child, the one scar that reminds him of his brief, yet defining time with the person now sitting not two feet away from him.

Awang offers him a hand. Sancaka grips it in his.

“At least I won’t die alone,” Awang says.

Sancaka smiles grimly. “No,” he murmurs. “You won’t.”


	5. Nani

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was just refusing to cooperate. this is as good as it's gonna get unfortunately lmao
> 
> also!!! this chapter ONLY will use the nano-nano format aka english description and indonesian dialogue, due to my headcanon of nani wijaya being a jaksel girl and it won't show if the language is all english. all artistic decisions, really
> 
> this chapter deals with subjects that are very close to my heart. i have been both nani and sancaka in this situation. this conversation was also one that i had with my closest friends, and while i changed a lot of the details, what resulted is the same. i hope it doesn't come off too preachy, as all i want to do is just explore this dynamic between nani wijaya, the rich girl, and sancaka, who literally was shown in the movie to be eating food off of the dirty ground. 
> 
> of course, by the time the sri asih movie came out in 2020, this will likely be very much an AU. so her characterization in this is made out of a mix of headcanons and the prahara comics, where she literally was like "nanti saya ganti rugi" any time she did something wrong.
> 
> as always, comments and constructive criticisms are not only welcome, but encouraged :D

Nani flips him over and body-slams him into the mat, none too gently.

“All right, let’s call it,” Nani says, tapping off invisible dust off of her hands. “You’re distracted.”

With mighty effort, Sancaka manages to lift his back off the ground. “Nggak,” he denies. “Sekali lagi masih bisa.”

Nani sizes him up skeptically. Sancaka looks down—his grey t-shirt is soaked through with sweat, and he knows his face must be beet red from rigorous exercise. “Ya, istirahat lima menit dulu, deh.”

Nani throws a clean towel at his face. “You’re going to need more than that.”

Begrudgingly, Sancaka wipes at his face. It’s his third sparring session with Nani. Ever since she showed up at the big thug showdown weeks ago and wiped the floor clean in three whips of her _selendang_, Nani has slotted herself readily into his little band of crime-fighters. He wishes he could say that he’s warming up to her as quickly as Wulan is, but jury’s still out for him.

He blames Awang for his distrust in rich people. Her family, the Wijayas, owns nearly one percent of the nation’s wealth in properties, stocks, and investments. It’s insane, to think of how much money her family hoards, how much power and control that her family can buy out. Nani herself, at first glance, is a caricature of the South Jakartan rich girl: she drives a Mercedes and wears shoes from a brand Sancaka cannot pronounce. One time, just for giggles, Wulan googled the price of the flip-flops she was wearing, and was scandalized to find that they’re equivalent to their rent for six months.

“Anjrit,” she had said, “Mendingan pake _Swallow_.”

Nani mixes English with Indonesian like Indonesian is her second language. It frustrates Sancaka, sometimes, when he would say something to her in Indonesian only for her to answer in English. She would notice the look of cluelessness in Sancaka’s eyes and translate what she just said and it’s – a little bit humiliating, to be honest. It makes him feel stupid, at times, though he knows that Nani meant no harm.

Nani maintains that her rich girl act is just that – an act. In the months since Nani has come, it has become apparent that she is nothing like the dumb, condescending, materialistic girl that Sancaka has come to expect. Sancaka _can’t_ not take her seriously when she’s saved his ass countless of times in the battlefield. They certainly make good teammates, but whether he wants to hang out with her outside of their crime-fighting business is another matter entirely.

The person in question is currently drinking lemon-infused water from a hydroflask, the metallic pink jacket she’d taken off for the exercise now worn around the shoulders casually. “Mau?” she asks when she notices Sancaka looking at her.

Sancaka shakes his head, and reaches for his Aqua bottle.

“Okay, seriously,” Nani’s putting her hands on her hips. “Ada apa? I know you’re thinking hard. Even Dewi Sri can feel it.”

“Nggak kenapa-napa,” Sancaka says.

Nani looks at him with a straight face. “Bohong, ah. We all know ‘nggak kenapa-napa’ most definitely means ‘kenapa-napa.’”

Sancaka suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. She could’ve just said the whole thing in Indonesian: _Bohong. ‘Nggak kenapa-napa’ artinya pasti ‘kenapa-napa.’ _

“Sok tahu kamu,” Sancaka says, standing up. “Ya udah, kalo latihan hari ini selesai, aku mau ganti baju. Mau jemput Teddy di sekolah.”

“Oh, no need,” Nani says. “Nanti aku yang jemput Teddy.”

That has Sancaka stopping in his tracks. “Oh,” he says, “Kamu yang jemput?”

“Yup. I’m taking him to Gramedia to buy some school supplies.”

Wulan buys Teddy pens and pencils from a nearby store owned by a family of four who had lived in the second floor of their rumah rusun for seven years. Sancaka suddenly feels very inadequate. “Ya udah, hati-hati.” He quickly leaves the gym – if he stays in the room with Nani for one more second, he probably will snap at her, for reasons he feels too stubborn to disclose, and Nani doesn’t deserve that.

The thing is, Sancaka’s not at all insecure that Nani’s the obvious provider between the two of them. God knows their little gaggle needs the money – Rumah Perdamaian is generous, but there’s only so much he can afford to spend without alerting the higher-ups at the Legislative of the team’s existence. Nani spending money on them is not suspicious when the media already paints her as a wasteful rich girl. Nobody will question why the rich girl decides to buy whole gallons of paint, home gym equipment, dozens of IKEA furniture, or buys the rights to a Djakarta Times’ deserted printing warehouse. _Orang kaya mah bebas._

Sancaka knows he should be grateful, and by God, he’s trying to be. But little things about Nani continue to grate him the wrong way – he can’t help but compare his black _Kapal Api _coffee with her fancy café take-out coffee topped with whipped cream or – horrendously – cream cheese. It bothers him more than he cares to admit.

It all comes to a head on a hot Tuesday night, as his group of crime-fighters were wrapping up a surprise attack in Ahmad Yani.

Sancaka always thinks that their truest characters are revealed during a fight. He notices that Wulan is a quiet force; not having any superpowers means that she has to compensate in other ways, and she likes to strike when her opponents least expect it, seemingly popping out of nowhere to deliver a jaw-breaking punch or a kick to the crotch. Awang’s presence in a fight is undeniable, even as a lanky street kid, and as an adult, that strength is only amplified by Godam’s powers.

Nani is –

“Nan, sebelah kirimu!” Awang yells out.

Nani’s red _selendang _whips around her before Nani can turn around, seemingly to extend in length, like it has a mind of its own. Nani grips it in one hand and brings it down like a whip, sending the thugs flying yards away. They hit the opposite wall hard, and go down like a sack of potatoes. While it’s impressive, Sancaka has no time to admire it – from his right, he hears the sound of an engine being revved. A truck barrels on their direction at full speed, AK-47s hanging out of both windows, firing bullets at them.

Nani moves fast. Her _selendang _shoots out, wrapping around the AK-47s, and Nani yanks them out of the car, the shooters, still holding on to the weapons, rolling to the ground helplessly. Awang swoops in, punching the driver into the street-side building, making bricks crumble at his feet.

Sancaka charges his fists – the most painless way to go about this is to electrocute the car – but Nani, faster than lightning, shoots out her _selendang_, piercing through the air at a speed that is inhumanly possible, striking at the front wheel, causing the vehicle limping to the right as it loses balance.

Letting out a guttural growl, she lashes at the truck with her _selendang_, sending it barreling into the row of parked cars on the side of the street. Car alarms start wailing, but Nani merely cringes.

“Ups,” she says, the _selendang_ flying back to her sides. “Maaf, nggak sengaja! Siapa pun yang punya, nanti saya ganti!”

Sancaka stares at her.

“What?” Nani says.

“Nggak papa,” Sancaka shakes his head.

Sancaka turns around, unwilling to give Nani a chance to reply. Immersing himself back into the fight, he immediately runs to Wulan’s side, shooting lightning out of his hands to throw the thugs ganging up on her away. He focuses on the task at hand – defeating the thugs – and does not think at all about the annoyance simmering beneath his chest at how _easy_ it is for Nani to dismiss property damage with a promise of payback.

If he feels Nani’s eyes on him the rest of the fight, he pretends he doesn’t notice.

-

Nani corners him at the warehouse after debriefing ends, looking like she’s about to explode. Sancaka knows she’s been dying to confront him; he’s planned his route of escape – through the back door and into the alley way no one ever uses – but Nani’s faster, and she’s on him the second Awang declares the meeting finished. Wulan is barely out of her seat.

Nani advances on him, and she asks him, point-blank, “What is your problem?”

Sancaka sighs. “Saya sudah bilang, tidak ada apa-apa.”

“We both know that’s bullshit,” Nani snaps. “Kamu ada masalah sama saya, dan kamu nggak mau bilang.”

Wulan blinks at the two of them and sits back down. Sancaka catches her exchanging glances with Awang. He’d hate to be making a scene. He turns to address Nani. “Sudah malam. Kita lanjut besok aja.”

“Nope,” Nani shakes her head. “Kamu kasih tau masalah kamu apa sama saya, atau teman-teman kita nggak boleh pulang.”

Awang groans in protest. “Lah, masa gitu? Gue mana ikut-ikutan—”

Nani wrenches the _selendang _from around her neck, hurling it in Awang’s direction. His reflexes in non-Godam form are way too slow to avert the surprise hit, and in one blink the _selendang_ has wrapped around his torso, rendering him immobile. “Woy, ah!” Awang groans. “Kok gue jadi korban gini, sih?”

“Kasih tau nggak,” Nani says, “Atau nggak kita semua di sini sampe matahari terbit.”

Sancaka glances helplessly at Wulan, his only hope against the rage that is Nani Wijaya, but she just shrugs, like, _this is your mess, pal. Clean it up. _

“Kamu nggak akan ngerti,” Sancaka says finally.

Nani looks nothing but defiant. “Try me.”

Sancaka inhales sharply. “Kenapa sih gampang banget buat kamu untuk bilang kamu akan mengganti sesuatu dengan uang?” he asks. “Tadi tuh kamu ngancurin tiga mobil, Nan, dan kamu nggak ada rasa bersalahnya sama sekali.”

“We were in the middle of a battle!” Nani says, voice raised, disbelief written on her face. “Kekuatan kita ini semua destruktif, nggak heran kalo bakal ada collateral damage.”

“Collateral damage?” Sancaka can’t believe what he’s heard. “Tiga mobil ancur itu menurut kamu collateral damage?”

“That’s literally the meaning of the word, _Sancaka_.”

Sancaka’s hand twitches. “Bukan berarti karena kamu merasa pahlawan, kamu jadinya nggak berhati-hati. Masih untung tadi yang hancur mobil, gimana kalo tadi ada pejalan kaki? Rakyat sipil yang nggak sengaja lewat?” Sancaka lifts his chin. “Kamu masih bisa bayar, kalo collateral damage-nya nyawa?”

(_His father’s death is only worth two weeks of his salary_—)

“Ini karena aku nggak hati-hati?” Nani’s jaw is open. “Awang ngancurin satu toko kelontong! Kenapa kamu marahnya ke aku doang?”

“Beda, Nan,” Sancaka feels so frustrated. “Kamu – kamu ngerasa kamu boleh ngelakuin itu, karena kamu bisa ganti rugi. Karena ada duitnya, jadi kamu bebas ngapain aja.”

Sancaka’s struck a chord, and he know he did, because Nani’s shoulders deflate. Her eyes, fiery before, are now filled with hurt. Nani loosens the grip she has on her _selendang_, and all at once, Awang is released. “That’s what – “ she shakes her head. “Kamu mikir aku orang kayak gitu?” she looks around. “Buang-buang uang seenaknya?”

Wulan’s sitting up now, trying to reach for the other girl. “Nan – “ she starts, but Nani isn’t listening.

Sancaka shrugs. “Kita datang dari dunia yang beda, Nan.”

“Kalian sama-sama manusia, loh,” Awang quips, which earns him a smack from Wulan.

“Terus, kamu mau aku ngapain, Sancaka? Minta maaf karena… karena aku punya privilege?” Nani exhales. “Aku minta maaf karena tindakanku _reckless_ hari ini, tapi aku nggak – I don’t take lightly to people, you especially, accusing me of – “ she trails off, clearly frustrated, like the words are jumbled in different languages in her head.

“You know what? Mungkin kamu benar,” she relents, wrapping the _selendang _around her neck tight. “Maybe I am just a rich girl,” Nani mutters, swiveling around, making a beeline towards the exit.

Except Wulan beats her to it, and is now frowning at the both of them as she blocks the exit with arms outstretched.

“Lan,” Nani crosses her arms. “Minggir.”

“Nggak,” Wulan says stubbornly. “Oke, sebagai sekretaris de-facto Patriot—”

“Sejak kapan nama kita Patriot?” Awang asks.

“—sejak aku yang memutuskan,” Wulan glares at him. “Sebagai sekretaris de-facto Patriot, saya mau mengusulkan sebuah undang-undang dasar. Boleh?” Without waiting for any ‘aye’s, Wulan goes on. “Pasal 1, bahwasanya dilarang keras untuk pulang ke rumah dengan keadaan marahan dengan sesama anggota tim, apalagi ketika berantemnya bisa diselesaiin dengan cara berkomunikasi dengan baik-baik.”

Both Sancaka and Nani groan at the same time. “Wulan,” Sancaka starts, and closes his mouth again when Wulan shoots him a deadly look.

“Kalian berdua,” Wulan points at Sancaka and Nani, “Duduk.”

When Wulan tells you to do something, you obey. Sancaka and Nani dutifully sit back down, sitting across from each other but refusing to make eye contact. Wulan walks towards them, grabbing a nearby pen that was recently used to write down important minutes of meeting. “Pulpen ini adalah buffer,” Wulan says, holding it in front of her. “Siapa pun yang megang pulpen ini, dia boleh bicara. Hanya dia. Nggak ada yang motong, komentar, atau bikin lelucon,” that last part she directs at Awang, who looks back at her, mildly offended. “Ngerti?”

“Iya, Bu guru,” Awang rolls his eyes.

“Ih, lu diem deh,” Wulan says to Awang. She turns back to face Sancaka and Nani, handing it over to the girl frowning at her neighbor. “Nan, kamu duluan yang megang. Jelaskan ke kita kenapa kamu marah sama Sancaka.”

Nani looks skeptic, but she takes it from Wulan anyway. “Kayaknya udah jelas, deh, kenapa aku marah,” she mutters.

Sancaka opens his mouth.

“Nope, only I get to talk,” Nani waves the pen between them, irked. “Ya – yaudah, aku nggak suka Sancaka beranggapan seolah aku ini anak orang kaya yang kerjaannya cuma menghambur-hamburkan uang.” She twirls the pen around her fingers, eyes downcast. She doesn’t say anything for a long time, seemingly mulling over what she wants to say, and Sancaka waits, fiddling with his fingers, somehow feeling nervous and vulnerable. He’s not even the one who’s talking.

Nani blows out a frustrated breath. “I get it. My family’s wealth – you don’t get to their level of wealth without harming some people. I _know_. And I – “ she shakes her head, “aku tahu aku menikmati kekayaan mereka juga, dan aku ngerasa – bersalah, I guess, is the word? Tapi buatku, nggak ada gunanya ngerasa bersalah, ketika aku bisa melakukan sesuatu yang baik dengan kekayaan dan _privilege _yang aku punya.” She looks up at Sancaka. “Itu makanya aku mencari kalian. Jadi donatur rahasia Rumah Perdamaian. Karena aku bisa, dan aku mau. Not out of some sense of wanting to be a hero, but because – it’s a responsibility.” Her expression is open, honest, and in that moment, she reminds Sancaka of what his father said: _jika kita melihat ada ketidakadilan di depan mata dan kita diam saja, itu berarti kita bukan manusia lagi. _

Isn’t Nani doing exactly just that, then?

What makes her fight and his different is just that she has access to more resources than he does, and he certainly does not get to be mad at her for that. Just like he didn’t choose to be born into a poor family, Nani certainly didn’t choose to be born into a wealthy one.

He just –

He can’t find the words that can make Nani understand why it’s so jarring, after having little to no money on him for most of his family, to see someone spending it so mindlessly.

“I can’t lie, I feel a little hurt,” Nani says. “I felt like I was dismissed – and – aku nggak gila hormat, tapi aku cuma – “ she cuts herself off again. “Ugh. Ngerti kan, maksudku?” she looks between Wulan and Awang. “I don’t want to be – disrespected. And I felt like that’s what you did to me.”

Sancaka lets that sink in.

Nani hands the pen over to him. As Sancaka leans forward to take it from, her notices a raised scar tissue on her ring finger. Her palm, when he expects it to be smooth, feels no different than his own. He realizes, then – Nani has been Sri Asih for longer than he is Gundala, chosen since birth, and fighting since she knows how to. Nani may not live life in the slums, but she certainly is not a stranger to it, having the _sumping _tell her of incoming dangers, the suffering of the people around her.

When Wulan googled her name, it’s not just the price of her flipflops that came up. Distasteful, even some downright objectifying articles came up along with her name, stories that are supposed to be about Nani’s visit to the orphanage turned into a whole page of analyzing her looks, and none about the work she’s doing. That’s not even covering the nasty gossip blogs or the comments underneath every single one of her Instagram pictures – her whole life, what she has done has been dismissed, minimized, on the basis of her looks.

Wulan had remarked, as they were reading the articles, “She could find the cure for cancer, but the media would rather focus on whether she’s gained weight or just wearing a bulky sweater.”

“Waktu aku kecil, di – di hari ayahku meninggal,” Sancaka says, and hesitates, wonders if he should tell anyone this at all. “Ibuku tersandung dan mematahkan kakinya, waktu kami mencoba mengejar ayah ke pabriknya.” The details behind the memory have started to become hazy, over the years, but he still remembers the sickening crunch as his mother fell, her ankle jutting out in the wrong direction as she yelled at him to run after her father. “Kami diberi uang oleh pabrik untuk kompensasi kematian Ayah. Tidak seberapa.” Sancaka never asked for the exact amount – he didn’t care, at the time, consumed by his anger and anguish at the murder of his father, but he knew enough that the money didn’t last for more than two weeks. “Kami harus memilih antara menggunakan uang itu untuk makan atau ke dokter – dan Ibu memilih menyimpan uangnya buat makan.”

She went to a local _dukun_ to heal her ankle, instead, exchanging the service for a month’s work of household chores at the dukun's house. Her ankle never set right, but she was able to walk and find better work, and that had been enough for her. “Kadang-kadang, aku masih memimpikan Ibu – “ _God, nearly every night_, “dan setiap kali aku ingat bahwa Ibu lebih memilih untuk makan daripada ke dokter, rasanya sakit sekali.”

It’s the kind of anger that hurts. He doesn’t even know how to explain it, but every time he looks at Nani, all he can think of is, _you will never have a day where you have to choose between going to the doctor to fix your broken leg or being able to eat. _People like Nani don’t care whether there’s food on the table; they care whether the food tastes good or bad.

But that doesn’t mean that Nani is a bad person.

It’s just – the injustices of it all, sometimes, makes him so mad that he can’t think straight, and in his skepticism, he’s accidentally made Nani out to be an enemy.

“Tapi tidak adil buat kamu,” Sancaka finally admits. “Aku nggak bisa menyamakan kamu dengan orang-orang pabrik itu, yang hanya menghargai nyawa ayahku sebanyak pesangon dua minggu.”

Understanding passes in Nani’s eyes, her eyes softening as she looks at Sancaka. She places her hand on top of the one holding the pen. “Kita di sini untuk itu, San,” she says. “Tim ini – _Patriot_ – ada untuk memastikan nggak akan ada lagi korban-korban kejahatan seperti ibu atau ayah kamu.” The hope that's shining through her eyes is so calming to look at. But she's not looking at him as a hope, she has hope in her eyes because she has faith in their little team of crime-fighters, and that suddenly has Sancaka believing that they can achieve anything. 

Something heavy lifts off Sancaka’s chest. He smiles inwardly, “Sejak kapan nama kita Patriot?”

“Sejak sekarang,” Nani grins, glancing at Wulan, who looks like she’s watching a video of two puppies learning how to walk. “Ya, kan?”

Instead of answering, Wulan attacks them both with a hug. Nani laughs, surprised at the sudden show of affection, but hugs Wulan back nonetheless. Sancaka’s a little slow in reciprocating, feeling like he’s a fish out of water with this ambush of friendship, but he eases into it. “Wang,” Sancaka calls at the man watching them awkwardly. “Sini, ikutan.”

Awang narrows his eyes. “Nggak, makasih.”

Without a word, Nani’s _selendang_ seizes Awang by the waist, pulling him into their group hug.

“Anjing lu, Nan,” Awang curses, but his words hold no contempt as he begrudgingly gives in to the hug.

“I love you, Patriots,” Nani sing-songs, muffled by Wulan's hair pressed against her mouth. “We’re going to fucking end injustice in this country, you shall see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise the next chapter is going to be all fluff
> 
> hint: birthday ;)
> 
> follow me on twitter! @tinysanciki or tumblr @mighty-poffertjes


	6. Sancaka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wulan, Nani, and Awang talk about Sancaka's fear of lightning—and does something about it.

Wulan is unprepared for the onslaught of downpour that attacks the city all throughout December.

In Tenggara, rain hits fast and hard, then the clouds part again, the sun heating away every remnant of raindrops off the cement, leaves her wondering if it even rained at all. But in Jakarta, when it rains, it pours.

She should've gotten used to it. After all, in the first weeks that she first met Sancaka, it rained every day. She learns to get prepared for it, stick buckets underneath holes on the roof, apply makeshift plasters as temporary fix, secure all her important documents in the highest place possible in the room, locked inside a vacuum metal box she got off Pasar Senen. She lives on the sixth floor, and it's unlikely that the flood is going to go that high, but it's better to be safe.

She doesn't mind the rain, really, but she always has three concerns when it happens, which are:

  1. Street cats unable to find shelter in cold, rainy days;
  2. Teddy eating _indomie kuah_ for every meal just because he believes that it ‘matches the vibe,’ and;
  3. Sancaka.

(_Always_ Sancaka.)

Wulan doesn't like to pry. There are things about herself that she'll never tell a soul, not even Sancaka. He doesn't like airing out his trauma—_who does?_ Besides, he gets struck by lightning enough times that it has Nani and Awang fooled, but Wulan can see right through him. Lightning _scares_ him.

(And what does it say about this kind, shuttered man that he goes out of his way to seek out that which terrifies him, willingly, just so he can save the city?)

It wasn't just the fact that Wulan caught him one evening curled up in his bed/couch (he does not even have a _bed_), a thin knit blanket wrapped around him tightly, his eyes shut as he pressed his hands to his ears.

("Wulan—" his breath had been caught in his throat, humiliation flashed in his eyes, and Wulan had stood there in front of the door, frozen, _rantang_ in her grip.

A roar split the sky, and the room suddenly filled with blinding, millisecond light, before lightning struck, vicious and loud. Sancaka flinched, curled in more into himself, and Wulan rushed to his side, encircling the man in her arms as he trembled until the rain subsided.)

Wulan notices—even if she only does because she pays a lot of attention to Sancaka. (_Whatever_. Sue her.) There are telltale signs: the way his shoulders tighten, a look of dread that passes over his eyes, the way his hands always go to his ears, his last line of defense against the searing pain of getting struck by lightning.

It breaks Wulan's heart every time Sancaka shrugs it off, pretends it's all some kind of necessary ordeal, to physically _hurt_ himself just so he can be Gundala.

Some selfish part of her wonders if the city deserves Sancaka at all.

*

She can't—and _won't_—talk to Sancaka about it. On that night, Sancaka had quietly begged Wulan to never ask him to talk about it. He wanted it to be something unspoken between them, unbeknownst especially to their growing teammates. She’d wanted to push, then, wanted to tell Sancaka that _no, you do not need to hide, please_, but the sheer desperation in Sancaka’s eyes had stunned her into silence, and Wulan had nodded.

After living so long with his guards up, she can imagine how opening up can feel mortifying, and Wulan won't betray that trust, when Sancaka's made her the only person who's allowed to see him at his most vulnerable.

But the rain continues, turns into a storm some nights, and Wulan worries.

Some nights, when the lightning hits particularly hard, Wulan can hear whimpers through their shared walls. She keeps debating if she should come over, pretend she isn't aware of his shaking shoulders, rope him into spending the night on her couch, if only to assure him that he's not alone, that he can hold her hands if he wants. The memory of Sancaka’s plea stops her every time. Instead, she just stays awake until the rain stops, even if she knows Sancaka has no way of knowing.

Still, it's not really much of a help, and when Sancaka shows up to debriefs the next day with dark circles around his eyes, Wulan knows there is no staying idle any longer.

*

For all that Nani pretends to be a shallow, rich Jaksel girl, the real Nani is perceptive as hell. It's no wonder that she picks up on Sancaka's fear quickly.

It's day, but the sky is grey, holding a promise of another night of downpour. Pak Agung is taking Sancaka on a grocery run—they take turns doing grocery now, ever since Nani had a pantry installed in their headquarters—and Teddy has decided to tag along, gleeful at his first _triceng_ experience, which Wulan highly disapproves of, Nani straight up rejects, and Awang finds hilarious. But Teddy is also ten and rebellious, so Wulan just gives a pleading look towards Pak Agung and hopes they all make it back in one piece.

As she, Nani, and Awang file into their meeting room (which also functions as a rec room, training room, anything else they need, really), Nani sighs and says, "Really hopes it won't start raining."

"Me too," Wulan sighs without really meaning to. The motorcycle is equipped with a large rain poncho that can fit all three of them, if they try hard enough, but on top of worrying about Teddy catching a cold, she's also worried about the potential lightning storm.

Awang disappears into the pantry, and he comes back with a cup of _Kapal Api_. He's holding a sachet of _Dancow_ chocolate powder, which he dumps into his coffee as he sits down. He folds the sachet into some approximation of a spoon, and uses it to stir his concoction. Typical.

"The lightning's been really bad lately," Nani comments. "Set off my car alarm about a dozen of times."

Awang rolls his eyes. "Woe is me," he says sarcastically, which earns him a stinky look from Nani.

"I'm worried about Sancaka," Nani ignores him. "Is he sleeping okay? With the lightning and stuff?"

"He's _still_ scared of lightning?" Awang says.

Wulan blinks. "Wait, you guys knew?"

Nani says, "Well, it's hard not to notice," the same time Awang says, "Yeah, dude's scared of lightning all his life.”

Nani and Awang look at each other. Awang speaks first. “When I met him as a kid, we stayed in an abandoned railroad somewhere near the city limits. It started raining real hard one day, and when lightning came down he just—” he makes a _whoosh _noise, “—dashed into one of the cars. I remember he got real spooked. Said something like, _lightning’s always chasing me, all my life_.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “I thought he’d gotten over it when he added ‘electrocuting’ into his daily routine.”

“He hadn’t, though,” Nani says, grim. Her mouth is a thin line. “I figured as much. I noticed the way he kept flinching. I thought he just hates lightning—I mean, who wouldn’t, if you have to be electrocuted every time you want to help people?” Then, quieter, “I just didn’t know that it ran deeper.”

Wulan looks down at her hands, clasped on her lap. For a long, uncomfortable minute, the three of them are silent, deep in thought. None of them leads a happy childhood—Nani’s considerably better, but still, _terrible, exploitative mother_—but they’ve all heard Sancaka’s story. Dad killed in front of him, mother left him, one of his ears mangled from a fistfight with a bunch of other homeless kids when he ran away to Jakarta. The gravity of Sancaka’s trauma is just settling in now, and it makes the air around them heavy.

“Do we—do we want to talk to Sancaka, about this?” Nani asks.

“No,” Wulan says quickly. “He’d—he’d feel like he’s getting ganged up on.”

“Does he still live alone?” Awang asks, turning to Wulan, and she knows he’s not insinuating _anything_, but the fact that he’s looking at Wulan makes her cheeks feel warm.

“_Of course_ he does,” Wulan sputters. “We’re not—I’m not—”

Awang raises his eyebrows. He lowers his mug slowly from his mouth, still managing to look infuriating even with a coffee moustache. “Nobody’s accusin’ you of nothing,” he drawls, and Wulan’s thankful for her dark skin hiding her blush from Awang. He’ll never live it down, otherwise.

“Wait,” Nani says, her eyes wide, “Does he still sleep on a couch?”

Wulan nods slowly, and Nani gasps like it personally hurts her. “He _still _sleeps on a couch?” she looks around, as if Awang would provide a different answer. Awang simply shrugs, like, _well, beggars don’t get to be choosers. _

Wulan remembers that Nani’s been to Sancaka’s place, some weeks ago when he came down with a fever. She’d texted Wulan in despair right after—_you’re telling me, _she’d typed, _this man risks his life every night fighting all the bad guys and he sleeps on a couch? _After Sancaka had recovered, Nani kept bugging him about getting functional bed, and Sancaka had been annoyed, though Wulan would bet that some part of him would be touched at Nani’s concern. Just to appease the other girl, Sancaka had lied and said he’d spent the extra pocket money Rumah Perdamaian afforded him on a bed, but Wulan knew that he used the money to help Wulan pay for Teddy’s textbooks, instead. She hadn’t had the heart to inform Nani of the truth, especially as she’s still struggling to pay him back.

“That’s it,” Nani says, as determined as she is in a battle. “I’m buying him a big, fluffy bed for his birthday. Nobody stop me.”

Awang snorts. “Sancaka won’t accept handouts. He’s stubborn that like that.”

Wulan frowns. “It’s not about being _stubborn_,” she says. “When you’ve spent all your life on the line of poverty, working hard for everything that you own, it can feel kind of—belittling, to have someone give away something so luxurious.”

“My intention’s not that,” Nani protests. “Also, a bed isn’t supposed to be a luxury product. _Everyone_ should have a bed.”

“I know,” Wulan says, trying to be patient, to remember that Nani’s not purposefully ignorant. “But that’s not the reality.”

“He should have a bed,” Nani says, and it looks like her heart is breaking as she says it. “I want him to have a bed,” she says, a little helpless, but Wulan has a feeling that she means more than that. She knows that the disparity between them—between her and the people that she’s born to protect—still hangs heavy in Nani’s heart.

As if sensing the shift in the mood, rain starts falling outside. It’s barely a drizzle, but Wulan’s already worried.

“And it’s raining now,” Nani says, grimacing. “I really wish I could control the weather.”

“Me too,” Awang says into his mug, like he doesn’t want anyone except his sloshing coffee to know that he’s capable of making remotely compassionate comments about his best friend.

“Maybe I can persuade Dewi Asih into doing something like it,” Nani says, suddenly serious. She touches her _sumping_. “Dewi Asih—”

Wulan reaches out to stop Nani before she truly turns into Sri Asih. Teddy recently roped her into watching an anime about a girl who could control the weather—_pawang hujan_, really—and while she’s positive Sri Asih’s magical powers would not end in a similar outcome, Wulan’s not really taking chances. “Let’s not make any grand gestures,” she says.

Nani looks mildly offended. Outside, the rain intensifies. It’s only a matter of time before the lightning storm starts. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Then what do you suggest?”

Wulan inhales. “Okay, so here’s an idea.”

*

When Sancaka returns with Pak Agung and Teddy in tow, the training area in the back has been turned into an approximation of a home theater. All equipment has been pushed to one corner, leaving just enough room for Nani to drag the bean bags that Wulan had once thought to be useless from the rec area. Nani has her laptop connected to the projector facing the empty wall—Awang’s taken down their crime board so they could watch a movie.

Being the person that he is, of course Sancaka is immediately suspicious.

“What is this?” he asks Wulan, who shrugs easily.

“A movie night,” Wulan says. “Nani insists that in order to function well as a team, we need to also be comfortable with hanging out with each other outside of a battle. Hence, movie night.”

Awang’s taking the grocery bag from Teddy, already rummaging for his requested snack items. “It sounds like when your employers tell you that the office is like your family,” he says, “which is perhaps the worst manipulation technique ever, but it’s either this or tracking down Pengkor’s scattered assassin kids again.” He finds his family-size potato chip bag, and hugs it to his chest like a baby. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of Nani’s moon eyes for—”

“Awang, so nice of you to carry the grocery bag for me!” Nani says with a saccharine sweet smile. She’s stepping on Awang’s feet. “How about you help me make the snacks? Wulan can pick the movie.”

Awang resolutely does not flinch and smiles back, just as sweetly. “It would be an honor to help you in the kitchen, Nani Wijaya.”

Wulan watches them disappear into the kitchen area with her eyebrows raised, half worried that they’d end up killing one another before their mission even has a chance to succeed. Sancaka seems to share her sentiment, because he glances at her, expression completely flat, and says, “Nani’s hitting him with the first blunt thing she sees, I know it.”

Wulan laughs.

*

Outside, the rain rages on. Teddy’s flipping through the movie catalogue, having been delegated by Wulan to pick the movie, Pak Agung beside him, saying, “Not a movie in English, come on, there are a lot of good Indonesian movies…”

“Can we watch a horror movie?” Teddy asks Wulan.

“Are you sure you will be able to sleep if we watch a horror movie tonight?” Wulan asks him. Doubt flickers through Teddy’s eyes but her brother nods, looking determined.

“I will take my chances,” Teddy declares, and decides on _Pengabdi Setan. _

“Oh, no,” Wulan says, knowing immediately that Teddy will regret taking his chances. He’s not going to sleep a wink tonight. Thank god tomorrow is not a school day. She’s already resigned herself to three days of Teddy randomly shrieking at his own shadow.

She feels the bean bag beside her dip, and glances up to see Sancaka. He still looks suspicious, which is expected—as long as it distracts him from the storm cooking up outside. He tells Wulan, “He’ll want to sleep with you for a week. I read in the papers this movie is very scary.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” Wulan says, thinking about the time Teddy begged her to let him watch that Korean zombie movie. For weeks, he refused to board the _KRL_ out of irrational fear of a zombie virus outbreak. The kid’s lucky Wulan loves her so much.

A while later, as the title card flashes, Nani and Awang enter bearing snacks, seemingly continuing an argument that started in the kitchen. Pak Agung pauses the movie.

Awang’s saying, “Listen, I told you _specifically_ that the seasonings are for _indomie kuah_, not _indomie goreng_—”

Nani’s puffing up her chest, “You never cooked for yourself in your whole life? Is that what’s happening?”

“You’re asking _me_ that?” Awang says, affronted.

“I realized my mistake before I went too far!” Nani says.

“Now the noodle’s all soggy!”

“Whoa, whoa,” Pak Agung says, standing up just so he can separate the two before Nani ends up throwing noodle all over Awang. (Again. The first time is not pretty.) “Stop yelling at each other for one second. What happened?”

Awang brandishes two big bowls of _indomie_. Only one bowl is filled with broth, but Awang’s not joking—the other bowl holds soggy noodles. Which is not ideal, but Nani and Awang have both challenged one another into a duel so much less. Sancaka’s looking at them, half amused, half annoyed, but his mouth is curled up, something like fondness at the edge of his smile.

“Nani poured water on what’s meant to be _indomie goreng_,” Awang says accusingly.

“Just a _little_,” Nani says defensively.

Teddy peers into the bowl of supposedly ruined _indomie goreng_. With a definitive sigh, he picks up a single strand of noodle and pops it into his mouth. He chews carefully, nose scrunching, and then, “They don’t taste bad.”

Nani beams at him. “Right? Think of it like—like _mie yamin_!”

Awang definitely does not agree, his mouth open halfway in protest. Pak Agung, ever the pacifist, interjects before Awang says something that would really piss Nani off. “So? Are we watching a movie?”

Nani and Awang look at one another, then both sigh at the same time, resigned. Nani plops herself down on a bean bag next to Wulan, and Awang settles next to Sancaka. They look like petulant children, which is a pretty bizarre sight when Wulan remembers that they are—arguably—the most powerful Patriots.

Pak Agung shakes his head at them, the way Wulan would after Teddy threw a tantrum after being told no. Wulan wordlessly takes the bowl of _indomie kuah _from Nani, while her brother, sitting snugly in a bean bag shared with Pak Agung, holds the soggy indomie goreng to his chest, and presses the play button.

Unsurprisingly, as the movie continues, Awang keeps making snide comments about the stupid things the characters are doing. Wulan thinks it’s to distract him from how insanely scary the movie is. Teddy’s already screamed three times—every time the music turns low and haunting, he covers his eyes, leaving only a tiny gap between his fingers to peep through. In total contrast, Nani gleefully keeps her eyes open, completely enjoying the movie—or perhaps just pleased that Awang is more a wuss that she is.

At one point, the ghost appears when one of the characters is praying, and Awang groans, not having any of it. “Really?” he says. “Not safe even when you’re praying to God?”

“Ssshhh,” Nani says.

Wulan’s not a wimp. She loves horror movies, but she has to admit that this time, her focus is nowhere near the projected movie on the wall. She can’t tell if Sancaka’s immersed in the movie, his expression unreadable as it often is. His body is still, not showing any visible reaction to the pitter-patter of the rain outside. Wulan hesitates to call it an improvement, but it’s—something.

The rain is falling steady and hard. Wulan keeps trying to convince herself that it’s not a big deal _at all _that they’ve kind of inched closer compared to when the movie started, that it means nothing when a particularly scary scene comes on, Wulan pretends to be spooked, hides her face behind Sancaka’s shoulder, and he lets her. The ray from the projector is reflected back on his skin in a silver-ish hue, and Wulan thinks he looks almost ethereal. Wulan has to look away so she doesn’t do anything stupid, like kiss Sancaka in front of her friends, her brother, and his father figure.

But she won’t mind if he kisses her right now, she realizes, and that thought makes her dizzy. Sometime during the movie, Nani’s looped her hands around Wulan’s arm, leaning her cheek on her arm, but the sensation of Nani’s skin on her feels nothing like Sancaka’s on her. Her shoulder’s pressed to his, and the spot where their skin meets feels hotter, like a brand.

She steals a glance at Sancaka, except he’s already staring at her, and instead of being a coward and looking away, Wulan holds his gaze. There’s knowing in those dark eyes, an unspoken thanks. When the sky lits up in white and lightning cracks, Sancaka reaches for Wulan’s hand, interlaces their fingers, and holds on. He trembles, just a little. But this time he’s not alone.

The next time lightning hits, Teddy’s migrated from sitting on Pak Agung’s lap to Awang’s, the latter in the middle of telling a stupid joke. Their laughter drowns out the angry rumble in the sky, and for once, Sancaka did not flinch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk any other indonesian horror movies except for the ones made by joko bcs i am a Wimp. press f for more nani awang sibling dynamic !!! the indomie story is a true thing that me and my sister have fought over.
> 
> as always, your comments make my day <3


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